


What's In a Name?

by mific



Category: due South
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fanfiction, M/M, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:12:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5310704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben and Ray develop soulmarks as teenagers, which, at the time, is both unwanted and confusing. What's going to happen when they meet up as adults, especially in the wake of Ray Vecchio's mysterious disappearance?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's In a Name?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cathybites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathybites/gifts).



> An AU take on canon, written for the 2015 due South Seekrit Santa. Cathybites asked for various things, of which I think I've managed: the inclusion of Dief, an AU, a happy ending, and rimming. :)
> 
> The title’s from Shakespeare’s _Romeo and Juliet_. The premise is obviously AU, but it particularly deviates from canon after _Burning Down the House_. A few lines of dialog from the show were used for continuity.
> 
>  **Warning:** the soulbonding trope (or at least my idiosyncratic take on it in this fic) is inherently somewhat dub-con, but I promise that while this leads to a degree of angst along the way as they figure it out, the story's essentially consensual.
> 
> Many thanks to Verushka70 and the dSSS mods for beta-reading and feedback!

**********

 

There was no rule about where on your body the name of your soulmate might appear, and anyway, it didn’t happen to everyone. Ben’s appeared on his upper right arm when he hit puberty, but people got names tattooed on their arms that were nothing to do with soulbonds, and Canada was cold enough that Ben hardly ever had to let anyone see it, so it really wasn’t an issue. Apart from the fact that life had played a cruel literary joke on him.

He didn’t realize it was a joke until he was fifteen and discovered an old dog-eared copy of Tennessee Williams' play _A Streetcar Named Desire_ , which definitely wasn’t on his grandmother’s permitted reading list. Awash in adolescent hormones as he was, the title grabbed his attention immediately.

They were wintering over in Fort McPherson as the librarian there was away having a baby – something Martha Fraser sniffed at as though it showed a spineless lack of dedication to librarianism. Ben spent most of that winter surreptitiously reading books Martha had forbidden or had just never heard of, hiding the banned books in a dusty corner of the stacks among some non-fiction texts about tropical fish. Martha never bothered with books that weren’t literary classics, or that she deemed irrelevant to everyday life.

She and his grandfather didn’t know about the name. It had only faded in just below his right shoulder when he started having embarrassing erections and even more embarrassing dreams. Nocturnal emissions – there was a term to conjure with. It sounded like a factory discharging illegal pollutants, and Ben figured that was pretty much how Martha would see it if she had any idea, which he fervently hoped was not the case. He took over the household’s laundry as one of his chores – his grandfather gave him a knowing look but Martha seemed oblivious.

Anyway, his grandparents were the very last people ever likely to see him undressed. It wasn’t that sort of household; no one ever wore less than a long-sleeved undershirt. The one time he’d stripped down to his long johns and jeans, trapped in their stuffy, over-heated cabin in a snow storm, his grandmother had frowned at him and said: “Get properly dressed, Benton. You can’t be wandering around in your underwear when any Tom, Dick, or Harry might come to the door. What would people think?” Ben had tried arguing that no one was likely to visit them in a blizzard but Martha had been adamant and his grandfather just sighed and shrugged, so Ben had reluctantly donned a flannel shirt and sweltered in the stifling heat until the weather let up and he could escape out into welcome crispness.

A couple of doctors had seen the name, but he’d been a teenager by then and able to get them to keep his grandparents out of the cubicle. Martha and George’s natural prudishness helped – they didn’t want to see him undressed any more than he wanted to be seen, and the injuries had been minor: a broken collar bone from a sled-racing accident when he was fourteen and bad bruising after he slipped on icy rocks. The doctors didn’t comment – maybe they weren’t literary types, or maybe they _were_ , and thought he was a Tennessee Williams fan.

Ben hated the name. He’d been baffled at first when it appeared, as most of the names he knew were Inuit, or from the English and French settlers who’d colonized the region. There weren’t many Eastern European immigrants in Inuvik – he only knew Kai Karpinnen, a big Finnish trapper who’d somehow ended up there. After some research, Ben figured out the name on his arm was Polish, which was a surprise.

The fact that the name was a man’s came as no surprise, but was another reason to keep it hidden. The doctors were bound by confidentiality and Martha, a fierce critic of the local educational system, had insisted he was home-schooled. For all its drawbacks, that had at least protected him from communal showers and change-rooms. He’d watched the name appear, slowly fading in until it looked like a tattoo across his deltoid. _Stanley Kowalski._ It confirmed what he knew: he liked boys as well as girls. He guessed he must be homosexual but the library only had an ancient copy of Kraft-Ebbing’s _Psychopathia Sexualis_ , which was no help at all and gave him nightmares for a week.

Confusion about his sexual orientation aside, the real reason Ben hated the name was because Stanley Kowalski had been an animalistic brute. Loud, violent, and a rapist – there was no excuse for that sort of behavior, none. Kowalski was the opposite pole to Ben’s moral compass, utterly beyond the pale, a crude, unintelligent Neanderthal of a man. How could anyone like that be his soulmate? Quite apart from the fact that he was a _fictional character_.

No, it was all too much. Ben put a Band-Aid over the name and tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about girls or boys or sex at all. That policy got him through Depot and once he was posted—always remotely; it just seemed safer—he was too tired after trudging through the snow catching criminals, and too far away from anyone to be tempted.

It was a partial solution, but Ben hated unsolved mysteries and sometimes he wondered what the name meant and whether there was a message in it. Should he go to New Orleans? He’d never liked warm climates, preferring the snap of frost, icicles glistening after a sudden chill, and the sharp, resinous tang of conifers. He certainly didn’t plan to seek out men like Kowalski – he’d had to arrest a few such individuals and the type repelled him.

Victoria blew all thoughts of the name right out of Ben’s head. Blew all rational thought away for those few fevered days until it all came crashing down, his betrayal of himself and Ray Vecchio worse in the end than her lies and duplicity. It took Ben a long time to trust himself after that, and he gave up any dreams of finding someone to love. Friendship was precious, and the work was important. It was enough; it had to be.

Sometimes, though, in restless, fevered dreams, he was pushed down on his face by a looming, rough hulk of a man, his hands pinned, legs kicked apart as he was taken again and again from behind, helpless to resist . . . but he didn’t want that. He didn’t. It was all the fault of that stupid, taunting name.

**********

The name pissed Ray off. What was it with him and names, anyway? First his folks went and called him Stanley, which when you were thirteen was _not_ what you wanted. It wasn’t the name of a suave spy like James Bond or a sporting hero like Joe Namath, and it sure as shit wasn’t a rock star’s name like John Lennon or Mick Jagger. They all had cool names, not _Stanley_. So the hell with it – he went by Ray and that was that.

He’d just hit puberty when the name first appeared on his right arm, just below the shoulder where anyone could see it and give him a hard time about it. He stopped wearing tank tops and muscle shirts, even when the Chicago summer turned sauna-hot and Ray and his dad were stripped down, working on the car. Even then, Ray wore t-shirts – anything with sleeves long enough to cover the thing.

He had his work cut out hiding it from his ma – she sensed something was up and kept asking what was wrong. That was soon after the name had faded in, when he was all mixed up about it, moping around in a crappy mood. Ray just mumbled something and his dad said if this was the worst they were gonna have to put up with from his hormones they’d be getting off easy. Ma left it alone after a while, but he caught her sometimes, watching him with a little crease between her eyebrows.

 _Benton_. What kind of a dumb name was that? He’d never known anyone called Benton, not in the neighborhood, and not at school, either. _Benton Fraser_ , it said, clear as anything. Or well, not all that clear – he’d had a hell of a time reading it in the mirror ’cause that made it go backward and it was a weird-ass name anyway.

Ray went to the library and asked if they had anything about names that explained where they came from, and old Mrs Shipman found him some books, but they were no use, just about baby names (no Bentons there) and where surnames came from. Fraser was Scottish, it turned out, but Chicago was full of Scottish and Irish immigrants, so that was hopeless.

He tried telling himself it was a really weird girl’s name for a while. Maybe it was short for something, like, um . . . Bentamima, or like . . . Bentadonna, or some shit. He stared at the made-up names he’d doodled, but it was no good: they weren’t real names. The baby-naming book had Ben, for Benjamin, and Ray had to admit Benton sounded a lot more like a boy’s name than a girl’s. Which was just . . . no. He didn’t. He wasn’t. His dad would never speak to him if he . . . Sure, his folks teased him about crushing on Namath or Sean Connery or the Stones – he had posters of them up in his room – but his family just thought that was him being a teenager. Ray wasn’t so sure, with that goddamn name right there on his arm.

It messed him up, and he spent more time in the library reading about soulbonds and soulmarks. They were venereal . . . wait, no, what was the damn word? Vestigial, yeah. Left-overs. Throwbacks to some old-time thing that was supposed to “strengthen social ties and mating patterns within Indo-Nordic tribal groups”. Jeez. It was all gobbledygook to Ray, and the so-called experts didn’t have much of a clue either, the way they contradicted each other.

Some things the books agreed on: not many people got names any more; there was no guarantee you’d ever meet your soulmate; and if you ever did meet them you’d know it, for sure. The books didn’t make it clear _how_ you’d know, they just hinted at something physical, so Ray figured it was to do with sex. He found some file cards for adult-rated books, but the library didn’t have those ones out on the main shelves, and Ray was underage. Besides, no way was he gonna ask Mrs Shipman to reserve him “Sex and Your Soulmate: a Guide to Bonding”. Sheesh.

Six months later, Ray walked into the First National Bank of Chicago and met Stella, who was blonde, smart as a whip, and totally out of his league. Okay, so he also walked into an armed robbery and pissed himself trying to stand up to the bank robber, but that wasn’t the point. The point was he met Stella, and despite the unfortunate pants pissing episode she thought he was some kind of hero.

Stella was a Gold Coast girl and her parents treated Ray like a stray dog she’d brought home – indulgent but dismissive. Ray didn’t care – it was love at first sight for them both. To Ray’s relief there wasn’t any hinky soulbonding crap when they first held hands; not that he’d been expecting anything. Stella’s middle name was Marie and he’d asked about her family but there were no Bentons in it, so that was that. The name was bullshit.

What he had with Stell was better than any soulbond; it was true love for ever and ever, amen, and Ray figured the stupid fucking name could take a hike. He kept his shirt on when they were on dates and kept the lights low, never letting Stell see his bare shoulder even when the petting got a little hot ‘n heavy just before she turned sixteen. There was a close call around then, just before Stell’s birthday, when he got in a fight with some toughs who were heckling Stell. Ray messed them up but one of them got in a punch to his nose which bled all down his front. Stell took him home and cleaned him up, lending him one of her father’s shirts. He had to pretend to be shy and go change in the bathroom, which was not the manly image he’d been going for, right when he and Stell were planning their first time.

He went out the next weekend and got a tattoo. He passed the store just after hitting an auto supply place and went in on impulse, then panicked when the guy gave him a stack of books filled up with art – snakes and birds and hearts and seriously weird stuff with skulls and shit. In the end he made the tattoo guy copy a Champion spark plugs box he’d just bought, ’cause they were a good brand – reliable, and he liked the name. He had to be real firm with the tattooist to make him put it right over the name on his arm, but the guy did it in the end, shrugging, and there was enough black in the pattern to cover it completely.

Ray’s mom was pissed and his dad rolled his eyes and said “Hormones! I told’ya we’d gotten off lightly so far, Babs. Hey, c’mon, he’s just a kid, and at least it ain’t Betty Boop or somethin’ raunchy.”

Ray toughed it out and the next weekend when they were parked up doing some necking, Stell said it was hot and he was her Champion, which was what he’d been aiming for all along.

They ended up having their first time in the GTO that night, and it was awesome. Well, it was awkward and over real fast, and they definitely got better with practice after that, but it was still the best thing that’d ever happened to Ray. When he held Stell in his arms and kissed her afterward, Ray knew he’d done the right thing. Stell was his soulmate, and fuck the name. The goddamn name was history.

Years later, when it had all finally fallen apart with Stell and she told him they were history, he was too gut-shot even to remember there was anything under the old tatt on his arm. He’d had his soulmate, and lost her, so he flirted with the women at the precinct to hide the aching hole inside. They didn’t give him the time of day, but that was okay – they knew he was just going through the motions, mouthing bullshit because he’d been chewed up an’ spat out and was trying not to lose it completely. It mostly worked, and when it didn’t, there was the job, and booze.

**********

Ben was reeling from one unsettling thing after another – first that strange telephone call from Ray, then arriving in Chicago to find his apartment a smoking ruin, then his colleagues at the 27th Precinct acting very oddly indeed. And where was Ray Vecchio?

An impostor with too much blond hair and a distinct lack of Armani clothing seemed intent on persuading Ben that he was Vecchio. The man leaned in and Ben found himself drawn forward as well, until they were almost nose to nose.

“Partners, Fraser. Partners,” the man said. For some reason Ben was finding it hard to breathe. The man who was _not_ Ray Vecchio suddenly pulled back and yelled: “Elaine, you got that stuff on the Docklands?”

Ben jerked back as well, feeling as though he’d snapped out of some sort of trance. “Who are you?” Ben asked curtly. He was verging on rudeness, but honestly, it was just too much.

Before he was able to clarify the situation the phone rang with an anonymous tip-off about the Vecchio house being on fire, so they were away chasing a serial performance arsonist with Ben none the wiser about this stranger who was still determined to impersonate Ray Vecchio. Even Francesca was acting peculiarly, which, well, Francesca always . . . but the sense that she knew something of which Ben was ignorant was disturbing.

Ben was determined to get to the bottom of it. He deftly inserted an ink pad when the impostor high-fived him after they uncovered the perfume clue, and of course the prints weren’t Ray Vecchio’s. Not that Ben had thought even for a moment . . . but everyone else was so _sure_ the man was Vecchio: it was giving Ben a headache. Also, there’d been a split second, there with the ink pad, when their fingers almost brushed and Ben had felt _something_. Something odd, almost electric. He shook his head: he was just overwrought.

There was no time to question the man they called Vecchio as they hurtled on, chasing Greta Garbo in the burning Riviera. Ben had been too busy trying to locate the incendiary device, and then trying to keep Ray—no, he _wasn’t_ Ray, he simply was not—from killing them by running red lights, of all the foolhardy things to do on top of pressing the hot wax button in the car wash, for goodness’ sake.

No time for anything but to drive into the lake, Ray Vecchio’s beloved car burned and now sinking. Ben and Dief struggled, drenched, up onto the docks and Dief was no help, as usual, so Ben had to grab the man calling himself Ray by the cloth of his coat and haul him up as well. Another sharp frisson of something as he clutched the wad of drenched fabric and felt the muscled back beneath it, and then they were staggering up, facing the Garbo woman and her pistol.

Ben’s heart stopped when Ray leaped in front of him to take her bullet. Suddenly it didn’t matter that he wasn’t Raymond Vecchio, wasn’t balding and big-nosed. All that mattered was that Ray had been right about partnership and duets and he’d taken a bullet for Ben when all Ben had done was make him bite into a window-putty sandwich, measure him with callipers, and distrust him.

He didn’t know who this man was, but as they collapsed together on the rough surface of the pier, Ben’s arms around Ray too late to stop the bullet to his heart, Ben was gripped by the conviction that he’d lost something irreplaceable, before even realising what he’d found.

**********

Ray wouldn’t’ve signed on for the undercover job at the 27th if he’d realized the Mountie was called Benton Fraser. It took a while before he noticed it, ’cause there was a shitload of reading what with boning up on Vecchio’s life story and his endless Italian relatives, not to mention all the details about the 27th itself. It was some time before Ray even got to Vecchio’s caseload.

Everyone called the Mountie Fraser, and okay, maybe that should’ve rung a bell, but it was a common enough name in Chicago. The CPD was full of Irish and Scottish cops whose families had come to the U. S. of A. to escape a big potato famine back in the old country, or something. Ray’d never paid much attention in history class.

Ray knew the Mountie’s name was Fraser because of Welsh’s briefing. “You don’t got a partner,” Welsh had said. “Well, you do, but he’s a Mountie, name of Fraser.”

Ray’d blinked. “A what?”

“A Mountie. RCMP. Red outfit, Stetson hat.”

“Yeah,” Ray’d raised an eyebrow, “I know what they look like, but how come–”

“Long story.” Welsh had waved a dismissive hand. “He’s our liaison with the Canadian consulate.”

“Liaison?”

Welsh had glowered. “You got a problem with Canadians?”

“Me? Hell, no,” Ray’d said, shrugging. “Even if they did win the World Series that time. They’re . . . polite.”

“Yeah,” Welsh had sighed. “Fraser’s real damn polite.” He’d moved in then and poked Ray in the chest. “He’s also batshit crazy, and part of your job is keeping him in line.”

Ray’d smirked. “Keepin’ a super-polite Mountie in line? I reckon I’m up to it.”

Welsh’d sat down heavily in his desk chair and sighed. “I sure as hell hope so, Detective. I sure as hell hope so.”

Ray figured that was kind of weird, but after reading through Vecchio’s case files, he could see what Welsh had been on about. The guy, Fraser the Mountie, had done some seriously out there shit, and he had a pet goddamn _wolf_. Vecchio’s reports were full of Fraser this and Fraser that – there was even a mention of him licking the sidewalk but Ray figured that was a typo. Kicking, most likely. Vecchio wasn’t the best typist; cops usually weren’t. It was in Vecchio’s old case records that Ray finally saw the Mountie’s full name. _Benton Fraser_.

Talk about weird. Ray had some pretty mixed up feelings so he went and sat on the can and took a few deep breaths to calm the fuck down. He’d been so worked up about the name when he was a kid, and then he’d forgotten it when Stella came along. It was ancient fucking history – he’d buried it under the tattoo and he didn’t want all that confusing crap coming back again. Ray might sometimes look twice at a handsome face or a buff guy in the gym, but that was just whatchamacallit, athletics, no . . . wait . . . esthetics, yeah. He liked girls. He liked women.

Ray started flirting harder with Elaine and with Janey in admin, and if they kept brushing him off, well, his luck’d change sometime. It was bound to.

“Hey, _Ray_ ,” Frannie said, puttin’ some English on his name to rub it in that she was in the know, which made Ray roll his eyes because, hello, Ray _was_ his goddamn name, thanks very much. “Fraser’s coming back this week so you better read this.”

Ray took the file. It was a personnel file, labelled _Constable Benton Fraser_. He frowned at Frannie.

“Yeah, he’s not an employee, exactly, but Welsh said we should make up a file ’cause it’s like he’s your partner. I guess in case somethin’ happens.” Frannie glared at him. “Which it’s your job to make sure nothing does, buster.”

“I ain’t his babysitter, sis,” Ray could tell it got to Frannie a little when he called her that.

“I’m just sayin’,” said Frannie, narrowing her eyes. “Fraser’s special. So you better not let anything happen to him, you got that?”

“Why should anything happen?” Ray opened the file.

“Things happen around Fraser,” Frannie said darkly. “You’ll see.”

Ray didn’t notice her flounce off. Inside the front cover of the file was a photo of the Mountie. Christ, no one had told Ray the guy looked like a movie star: even the dumb hat suited him. Ray stared at the photo some more. This was going to be a tougher gig than he’d thought.

Tough didn’t even begin to cover it, when Fraser finally showed. Ray had a spiel all ready to go, about partnership and them being a duet, just to break the ice and get off on the right foot, but Fraser was a complete dick, suspicious and self-righteous and not playing along one bit. It was almost like Welsh hadn’t briefed him, or maybe Canadians couldn’t lie? Maybe it was a thing, a Canadian thing, or maybe just a Fraser thing, but it was like he was a boy scout with a stick up his ass who was also on speed. Jeez.

Fraser might be incapable of pulling off this undercover shtick but Ray was a professional so he ignored Fraser’s interrogation and the weird crap with him measuring Ray’s nose and his shoe size. There was too much going on, anyway, what with the arsonist hitting the Vecchio place, and prison visits, and then the Riv caught fire after Fraser’d climbed all over it like he had a death wish. Not to mention the damn wolf slobbering in Ray’s ear and probably about to start chewing on him. No one should have to put up with wolf saliva in their ear; Ray planned to put in a health and safety complaint if they didn’t all burn to death.

It was a pretty wild ride, and not only in the Riv, but the whole deal with Fraser. Ray’d meant what he said about them being a duet, but there was something spooky happening. He barely knew Fraser, but Ray couldn’t deny they had a rhythm going, a kind of dance. Also, He wanted to grab Fraser and . . . hell, he didn’t know if he wanted to knock his teeth in or what. It was like how he’d felt about Angie Morello in fourth grade when he’d pulled her pigtails and teased her. There was this vibe like electricity whenever he and Fraser got close, and it was hard to stay cool and keep his distance.

Fraser was impossible, but somehow Ray still kind of liked him, liked being his partner. It felt right in some bone-deep way Ray couldn’t understand, maybe didn’t _want_ to understand. He only knew when the Greta Garbo nut job pulled a gun on Fraser that he had to protect him, and anyway he had the vest, and for sure a suicidal loon like Fraser wouldn’t be wearing one. It was probably against the Mountie rules or something.

The bullet blew him back into Fraser, all the air knocked out of him, so he couldn’t do a thing when Fraser grabbed him and their hands touched. Whammo! It was a lightning strike, a current passing between them, and it lit Ray up like he was a neon sign. All he could feel was Fraser, his bulk and nearness, the smell of him even with the wet serge still dripping lake water, and Ray was hard, turned on and aching and if he hadn’t been stunned and winded he might’ve jumped Fraser right there, gun or no gun.

Fraser made a weird noise like he was in pain, and Ray felt him shudder. He figured Fraser was feeling it too. Christ, he’d better be feeling it ’cause Ray wasn’t doing this alone, no way. Then Fraser was up and leaping at the Garbo bitch almost snarling, like he was the wolf, not Dief. Ray heard them scuffling but he couldn’t see a damn thing.

He fought to get his breath back and get himself under control, and he’d almost managed it when Fraser came back and leaned over him, concerned, touching his face. _Zap_ – there was that thrum again, but gentler. Ray managed not to moan or arch into Fraser’s touch. He even managed to play dead and then horse around some, to cover what he was feeling.

Fraser called him Ray, and he kept on staring, and Ray said, “You called me Ray,” but what he really meant was, “What the fuck was _that_?”

Fraser said, “No, I didn’t,” and “It was a mistake,” but there was no mistake, no way.

Ray knew he was really saying, “Not here, I can’t do this here,” so when Fraser offered him a hand up Ray didn’t hesitate, just grabbed it and held on. This time it wasn’t like sticking his hand in a light socket, just a buzz of connection deep down inside. Fraser swallowed and shook himself slightly, and Ray wanted to say, “See? That ain’t no mistake, Benton buddy,” but Fraser was right, this wasn’t the time or the place.

Ray let go Fraser’s hand and they waited there for back-up, keeping it light, not talking about the only thing that really mattered in the world.

**********

It took some time to wrap up the case, back at the 27th Precinct. Ben supposed he and . . . Ray—he could call him that much—had arrived at a truce of sorts. Then Lieutenant Welsh explained about Ray Vecchio’s undercover role, and everything fell into place. Ben suppressed a flash of annoyance, because really, it would have been vastly less confusing if only the Lieutenant had found the time earlier. But no, he must be charitable. Clearly it had been a hectic morning and the Internal Revenue Service were enough to rattle anyone. Take Al Capone – it was almost a Chicago tradition.

The card from Ray Vecchio was a bright spot, the message cleverly executed using lemon juice as invisible ink, just as Ben had taught him. That helped, but clearly he and Ray . . . Vecchio—oh dear, that was going to take quite some getting used to—needed to talk. Neutral ground was preferable, and besides, Ben was sleeping in his cupboard-sized office at the consulate, so that was inappropriate.

Ben plucked up his courage. “Ray . . . would you like to go and get something to eat with me?”

Ray looked startled – good heavens, had Ben been that curmudgeonly in his confusion?

“Yeah . . . I just got to, uh, I'll put away these files and meet you at the car.”

They went to a Chinese restaurant, and things were awkward, at first. Food helped to break the ice, as they shared out egg rolls and fried rice with sweet and sour pork. Ray bit off half an egg roll, then dipped the end in soy sauce as he chewed. He swallowed, coughed a little, and drank some tea.

“So . . . ” He glanced up at Ben. “Where’s yours?”

“Pardon?” Ben asked, not catching his drift.

“Your name,” Ray said. “You gotta have one, right? I mean,” he frowned and waved the half-eaten egg roll at Ben, “you felt that, uh, that zing between us?”

“Zing?” repeated Ben idiotically, knowing they had to discuss it but finding himself oddly reluctant. He liked this Ray. He wasn’t Ray Vecchio, no matter what play-acting the job required of Ben, but his father was right: Ray seemed like a good man, and Ben would be sorry to disappoint him.

Ray narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, the _zing_. Between us, when you grabbed me on the pier.”

“I wouldn’t say _grab_ – I was merely lowering you to the ground,” Ben said, aware he was stalling. “You had, after all, just been shot.”

Ray waved a hand. “Whatever. It _zinged_. There was a definite _zing_. You must’ve felt it.”

“I . . . I felt something,” Ben admitted. It was time to explain, much though he was dreading it. “Look, I, Ray.” He took a breath. “I did feel something, but it must have been a mistake. Static electricity discharging. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”

“You wanna explain it away?” Ray’s eyebrows were up in his hair. “ ’cause I gotta say, Benton buddy, that was a helluva jolt. I never got a charge like that off of a car door handle.”

“But, Ray.” Ben leaned in. “It can’t be. Lieutenant Welsh told me that your name really _is_ Ray, and I do, I do have a name, Ray, yes. On my arm, and it’s not that. Not Ray.”

“So what’s it say, huh?” Ray was glowering at him now, bowl of food forgotten. “What’s the name say?”

“Ah, it says ‘Stanley’, Ray.”

Oddly, Ray raised his eyes to the yellowed ceiling barely visible in the gloom above them. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” he said, sounding annoyed. “I don’t get to decide what I’m called even with _this_ shit?” He glared at Ben as though this was somehow his fault. “What else?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What else with the goddamn name? There’s a last name, too, right?”

“Yes, Ray. But—and this is why I know it’s not you—I’m afraid it’s a character from a play, not a real name. I don’t know why, and believe me I’ve racked my brains about it through many a snowbound winter. Perhaps my mother was an avid reader? Perhaps it’s because I was raised by librarians?”

“Jesus fuck,” said Ray. “Librarians? Sounds like bein’ raised by wolves, only, like, dustier and more boring.”

Despite himself, Ben grinned. “Close enough.”

“Still, you got the wolf anyway,” Ray said, gesturing with his egg roll. Dief growled softly from under the table where he’d sequestered himself, the better to devour a plate of dumplings.

“Yes, very droll, Ray, but if you’d grown up with ‘Stanley Kowalski’ engraved on your arm for all to see, I doubt you’d be so–”

Ben trailed off. Ray had deflated and was slumped, head in hands. “Christ, it’s for real,” he muttered. “Why me, huh?” He lifted his head and stared at Ben. “Not only is my soul-buddy a guy, he’s a fucking _Mountie_. An insane Mountie with a fucking pet _wolf_.”

Diefenbaker’s tail thumped.

Ray suddenly pulled off his jacket and rolled up the still-damp right sleeve of his shirt. “See?” he demanded, almost angrily.

Ben peered at his upper arm, but there was no soulmark, no name. Just an unusual tattoo of the word Champion in a diamond pattern. It was oddly familiar. “Is that . . . ”

“Champion spark plugs.” Ray nodded. “Good brand.”

“Yes, I’m sure they are,” Ben agreed, thrown by the sudden change in topic. “But I fail to see–”

“I got it done when I was sixteen, Fraser, ’cause Stella, my girl, almost saw what was on my arm.”

“Oh.” Ben got it. “You covered the–”

“Yep. You’d never know it says ‘Benton Fraser’ under there.”

“Ah,” Ben's mouth was suddenly dry. “Does it . . . does it indeed. Well.”

“That electric mojo we had goin’ on the pier, Fraser, that wasn’t no static nothing. I go by my middle name Ray, yeah, but my name’s not really Ray Vecchio, you know that.” He raised his eyebrows.

“Well, yes, I do _now_ ,” Ben replied, defensively. He was regretting the calipers, not to mention the window putty sandwich. “Now the Lieutenant has expl–”

“I’m _Stanley Kowalski_ , Fraser.” Ray held out a hand. “Stanley Raymond Kowalski at your service.”

“Kowalski?” Ben asked faintly. Ray jiggled his hand a little, impatiently, and Ben finally reached out and took it. He gasped, the tingling frisson renewed, perhaps as they’d kept their distance since the pier. Ben felt his cheeks flush as he fought down the reaction in his groin that seemed an inevitable accompaniment to physical contact with . . . Stanley? Dear God, that was even worse than calling him Ray Vecchio.

“Uh huh, Kowalski – I’m a Polack. But I use Ray, not Stanley. Hate bein’ called Stanley. Anyway, you gotta call me Ray Vecchio all the time, now, so it’s like a natural phenomenon.”

“A, a what?” Ben shook himself. “Yes, I do realise that. I . . . it would have been hard, anyway, calling you by, um, by . . . ” He realized that although their hands had come to rest on the table, they were still joined. The connection felt good now. Not a painful jolt, but a solid flow of recognition, fundamental and welcome.

“Yeah, that Kowalski in the play, he’s a dick, right?”

Ben flushed a little, although that was probably the contact with Ray. He withdrew his hand carefully. It felt cold, apart from Ray’s, and somehow smaller. “He’s . . . unpleasant, yes. It bothered me a lot, when I was younger.”

Ray nodded. “Me, I’m not much of a reader – get enough of that with reports at work. Stell, though, she did all sortsa advanced classes. She read it to me.” Ben must have looked quizzical. “I was married. To Stella, since we were kids. You know – the girl I got this for.” He tapped the tattoo then pulled his jacket on again and resumed eating. Ben picked at his rice. His appetite seemed to have vanished.

“Might have known,” Ray said ruefully, shrugging the shoulder with the tattoo, “what with this, there was no way it was gonna last.” He looked sad. “We were good together, though. More’n seventeen years we were married.”

“That’s an impressive record, Ray.” Ben frowned. “Wait, not Assistant State Attorney Kowalski?”

“Yeah,” Ray said, heavily. “Stella Kowalski. My ex.”

“Ah,” Ben imagined that all break-ups were painful – his own had been well-nigh fatal. But no – he would _not_ think of Victoria. Not now.

There was a pause. Ray finished the pork and Ben sipped jasmine tea. It was lukewarm and slightly bitter from being steeped too long.

“So this thing.” Ray wiped his mouth then gestured between Ben and himself. “We don’t got much choice, right?”

“I . . . ” Ben rubbed his eyebrow. “I’m sorry, Ray. I realize this isn’t what you’d have–”

“Nah, I don’t mean I don’t wanna.” Ray swallowed. “ ’s just a shock, y’know? Been trying not to think about it most of my life, and I never . . . ”

“Oh,” said Ben. He bit his lip. “Well, I’m afraid I don’t have much experience . . . well, none, really, not with . . . ”

“Guys,” Ray finished for him. Ben nodded. “Me neither.” Ray scrubbed his hands over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“Look, Ray, I don’t want you to feel forced into anyth–”

“Fraser, it’s a fucking _soulbond_ ,” Ray burst out, voice low and harsh. “Not like it’s optional.” He leaned across the table, knocking his teacup over. “Shit,” he said, mopping the table with a crumpled napkin. Fraser lifted Ray’s arm, trying not to shut his eyes and moan as the skin of his palm closed around Ray’s wrist, and dried Ray’s elbow off with his own napkin. “Okay, so maybe it’s not exactly gonna be a hardship,” Ray muttered, exhaling shakily. “And I’m not with Stell now, and you’re not with anyone.” He looked up, eyes wide. “Shit, you’re not, are you? With anyone?”

“No, Ray, it’s just me and Diefenbaker.” More tail thumps from the region of the floor.

Ray raised his eyebrows. “Whoa – I’m drawing a line right there. I am _not_ doin’ it with that furface watchin’ us or trying to fill my ear up with wolf spit. No way.” A growl came from under the tablecloth.

“Indeed,” Ben said. “I had no intention of allowing Dief to . . . ” There seemed no good way to end that sentence, so he gave up. “Ray, look. Really, we don’t have to rush into this, we can–”

“Jeez, Fraser, didn’t you read up about this stuff? I did when I first got the damn name, so you must’ve, what with the librarian thing an’ all.”

“Well, yes, I admit I was curious, Ray, but you can’t believe everything you read, and there’ve been very few controlled studies–”

“Yeah, because if you don’t do it once the bond’s been activated—and I gotta tell you, it’s feelin’ pretty goddamn active to me—you can’t sleep and you turn into a crazy person, and then you get sick an’ before you know it you’re in the hospital on fucking life support.”

Ben winced. “Well, there’ve only been a few severe cases of bond-denial syndrome–”

“Because the docs get the other person in there PDQ to finish bonding, is why.” Ray glared at him. “If they can’t ’cause the other one, I dunno, died or something after they started bonding, then their partner kicks the bucket as well.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said. He couldn’t seem to let go of Ray’s wrist. “I wish it could be more,” he grimaced, “more . . . consensual. I would have preferred to let things unfold between us in a more leisurely . . . I mean, dates, and, ah, courting.“

Ray twisted his hand to clasp Ben’s as though they were arm-wrestling. He squeezed Ben’s hand and grinned. “Courting, huh? You’d’ve been interested anyway?”

“Well, of course, Ray. You’re a very attractive man.” Ben felt himself coloring.

“You’re not so hard on the eyes yourself.” Ben’s blush deepened and something thrummed between their joined hands.

“Sweet fucking Jesus we gotta get out of here, because I am not comin’ in my pants in the Lucky Noodle.” Ray fumbled his wallet desperately out onto the table one-handed and extracted a few bills to cover their dinner. Ben, still flushed, felt the elderly owner’s eyes on the back of his neck as they left, hands clasped like a couple of six year olds.

They got a cab to Ray’s apartment, sitting silent in the back seat, thighs pressed together, joined hands resting on them. Ben almost dropped his wallet trying to get some cash out for the fare. The cabbie gave them an odd look but didn’t say anything.

“C’mon,” Ray said. “This way.” Fraser had just enough of his faculties left to tell Diefenbaker to wait outside the apartment door. Dief snorted derisively and trotted off to explore the neighborhood.

“Fuck it,” Ray cursed, dropping the key. It was his right hand clasped in Ben’s left, so Ben found the key on the dimly lit hallway floor and got it into the lock. “Man,” Ray said hoarsely. “We better get unstuck as soon as we, y’know. I need this arm.”

“I quite agree, Ray, “ Ben said. “It’s very awkw–” Ray dragged him into the darkened apartment and slammed the door, then wheeled and pushed Ben up against it, pressing their linked hands against the cool surface at head-height.

“Fraser, Christ,” he said, his voice breathy. “I can’t wait any longer but are we gonna get stuck together everywhere like magnets or something?”

“I . . . ” Ben couldn’t think and didn’t care. He grabbed Ray’s lapel with his free hand and hauled him in, lurching forward, seeking blindly for his mouth. Ray’s other arm was around his waist, pulling their hips together, and then he felt Ray’s lips and tongue against his, open and hungry and Ben groaned and God, they were devouring each other and it was _everything_.

He was so hard, and Ray thrust a leg between his and they were struggling, not to get away but to get closer, rutting desperately against each other’s thighs. Ben dimly realized he could move both his hands, but it was irrelevant as they needed to be in Ray’s hair and on his waist, up under his shirt, and Ray’s mouth was on his throat, his hands gripping Ben’s hips, pushed under Ben’s waistband to get skin on skin.

Every point of contact was a live wire throbbing and burning, and Ben was distantly aware of the guttural noises emanating from his throat, but too mindless to feel shame. Ray moaned, both of them blown beyond speech as they fought their way to orgasm. Ray shuddered against him and Ben felt it uncoil from the base of his spine. He shook and cried out as Ray clutched him and shouted something wordless into his neck.

**********

Ray slumped heavily against Fraser, panting. Christ, that’d been intense. He forced himself back, arms still trembling and not fully his own yet. “Fraser, Jesus, you okay?”

Fraser opened his eyes. He looked wrecked. “I am, Ray.” He pulled a face. “My pants, however, are another story.”

Ray managed a weak grin. “Yeah, tell me about it.” He looked back into the living room. “C’mon, help me make it over to the couch.”

His jeans, like Fraser’s weird-ass Mountie pants, were sticky and damp with semen, and Ray eased himself down beside Fraser, grimacing at the sensation but glad to get the weight off his still-noodly legs. A shower’d have to wait until he’d caught his breath and gotten back full use of his limbs.

“Man,” Ray said, “that was brutal.” Fraser stiffened beside him. “Oh, jeez, no, I don’t mean _you_ were brutal. Just, it was full-on, y’know?” Fraser relaxed a little, and nodded. Ray nudged him gently in the side with an elbow. “Hey, at least we’re over the worst, right?”

Fraser sat forward, elbows on knees, not making eye contact. “I, I think that depends on your definition of ‘worst’, Ray.”

“What d’you mean?”

Fraser half-glanced at Ray, still not quite meeting his eyes. “You read about it? What bonding involves?”

“Most of it. Like, I knew it meant we had to have sex – the books dropped a truckload of hints about _that_. Didn’t get to read any Adult-rated books, though. I was only fourteen an’ there wasn’t anyone I could ask to take one out for me.”

Fraser nodded. “Understood. I had to wait until I was fifteen myself, when my grandparents—who raised me as I’d lost my mother and my father was posted to isolated districts—were based at a larger library for a time. I managed to procure a number of books that winter of which my grandmother would definitely not have approved.”

“Oh yeah?” Ray frowned sideways at Fraser. “So, what? We gotta do more than just sex?”

There was a pause. Fraser stared down at his boots. Jesus. He still had his boots on, after _that_ , and so did Ray. It hardly seemed possible. Finally Fraser spoke.

“Bonding, full bonding, requires . . . penetration. One bond partner has to . . . So what we did, while it’s relieved a little of the, ah, urgency, is not sufficient, I’m afraid.”

“We gotta fuck.” Ray was blunt. Beside him, Fraser winced, then dipped his head in confirmation. Saying the words, seeing the images in his head, made Ray hard again so yeah, there wasn’t gonna be a problem in the technical department so long as Fraser was the same way. Maybe it was ’cause they hadn’t gone all the way yet? Oh man, this was way too much like being sixteen again, in every goddamn respect.

“Look, I was married, Fraser.” Ray gestured vaguely. “I got more general . . . experience with this stuff. You can do me, okay?”

Fraser turned sharply, brows drawn down unhappily. “There’s no reason for you to, as it were, take the bullet for me twice in one day, Ray. That seems unfair.” He swallowed and looked away again. “I’m sure I can cope with it, as long as . . . oh dear.” He turned back, looking worried. “Do you have lubricant? I don’t feel able to go out and purchase any.” A brief glance down at his groin. “Not in this state.”

“Don’t sweat it, I got lube. And condoms.” Fraser shifted awkwardly, still staring at the rug. “What, we can’t use condoms?” Fraser shook his head.

Ray blew out a breath. “Christ. Skin to skin, yeah, guess I shoulda known . . . Well, we don’t got time to get tested. I’m clean, anyway. Had to get it done after a perp bit me a few months back and I haven’t . . . you know. Not since then.”

Fraser nodded. “Good to know.” After a pause he said: “I don’t know if you read the Metcalf case file, but I was in the hospital for some time after that, and they tested me then. I also have not . . . not since then. Well, not before I was ah, with her, either.” He swallowed. “I apologize for my relative inexperience, but I’m sure that if you can be a little patient with me, and use lubricant–”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Fraser,” Ray burst out. Fraser turned, startled. “Look, I’m not takin’ your ass cherry when we’re neither of us really in control, what with all this bonding stuff messin’ with our heads. And with the rest of us.” He glowered down at his persistent erection. “Not just ’cause you think it’s your turn to grit your teeth and think of Canada.”

Fraser bristled. “Well, Ray, I fail to see why you should be forced to–”

“Because I _like_ it, okay?” Ray slumped against the back of the couch and shut his eyes. “I _like_ being fucked.” He opened his eyes and glared at Fraser. “Happy, now you got it out of me? I like takin’ it up the ass. Stella used to peg me and I really fucking liked it.”

Fraser had swiveled around, one hand on the couch back. “Ray, there’s nothing wrong with–”

“Yeah, tell that to Huey and Dewey,” Ray said bitterly.

“I most certainly will _not_ be telling Huey or Dewey,” Fraser snapped. He took a breath and visibly calmed himself. “Ultimately, Lieutenant Welsh will have to know about the . . . the bond, of course . . . ” He trailed off, looking horrified. “Oh dear. I suspect the Vecchios will also need to be told, for verisimilitude. People have, have parties, I understand.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Bonding parties, to celebrate.” He shook his head. “Francesca will _not_ be pleased.”

Ray covered his face with his hands. “Jesus fucking Christ, Frannie’s gonna go ballistic. She told me not to let anything happen to you, and now we went and got fucking bonded. Well, almost. Okay, that settles it. You gotta do me – no way I can face down Frannie afterward, knowing I made you–”

“This internalized homophobia is disconcerting, Ray,” Fraser said, looking annoyed. “I confess to not being blameless in that regard, never having had to confront the issue before, but I feel we should take a more positive approach to the whole,” he waved a hand, “situation.” Fraser sat back against the couch. “There are, after all, many advantages to being bonded. Improved health, longevity, emotional stability.” He went to cross his legs, then winced, and stopped. “Ah, perhaps we should . . . wash up a little?”

“Before round two?” Ray asked, just to be a dick. “Bathroom’s over there.” He gestured, and Fraser glared at him and got up with a grimace and made his way over, shutting the door firmly behind him. At least he hadn’t slammed it.

Ray sighed. Hell, he knew Fraser was right and they should both just get over themselves and get on with it. He didn’t want it to be some kind of horrible, like, trauma, for Fraser though, which was why Fraser was definitely gonna do _him_ , not the other way around.

Fraser emerged, and Ray gaped at him. He was naked, apart from a towel wrapped around his hips. Christ, he was gorgeous. Fraser flushed. “There didn’t seem much point in putting my clothes on again, and the pants are a lost cause, of course. They’ll need dry cleaning.”

Ray was suddenly aware that the desperation he’d felt over dinner was building up again. He’d been hard for a while, and Fraser’s towel wasn’t hiding the fact that he was, too. “Okay, okay, I’m gonna be real quick, because jeez, Fraser, talk about upping the ante.” Fraser’s ears went pink.

Ray scrambled up. Before pulling the bathroom door shut, he leaned out and pointed down the hallway. “Bedroom’s that way.”

There was no time for a shower, but Ray got himself as clean as he could manage, and brushed his teeth. He wrapped himself in a towel, even though his sensitive dick really didn’t like the rough fabric against it, and stared at himself in the mirror. Right, he could do this. They could do this.

Fraser was under the covers and flat on his back with his hands folded on his chest like one of those whited scapulars off an old tomb. If the tomb had a stiffy, that was. Ray got the tube of lube out of the drawer and set it on the night stand by Fraser. Fraser’s eyes slid over and he nodded, once.

Ray went around the bed, dropped the towel and got in under the bedclothes, then turned on his side to face Fraser. “Look, we gotta get in the mood, first,” Ray said. “We should kiss some more.”

“If I was any more ‘in the mood’, Ray, I’d be lethal,” Fraser said tightly. “I don’t know if I can kiss you, and, and not–” He clenched his jaw.

“Just use the goddamn lube,” Ray said, feeling kind of frantic himself, and he pulled Fraser in and found his mouth.

It wasn’t as explosive as their first kiss, if you could call something more like mutual cannibalism a kiss. This time, it was like that magnet thing Ray’d imagined, as though they were stuck together all over, skin to skin down their chests and bellies, cocks pressed up tight, legs tangling, arms clinging. He moaned, and Fraser echoed it, pushing his tongue in to slide against Ray’s as they found the configuration of limbs and lips that got them the most contact, rubbing and sucking, lost in the feel, the smell, the thrumming, electric connection.

“Smell so . . . ” groaned Fraser. “Ray, you smell so . . . I have to–” and oh God, he was licking Ray’s _armpit_ and it should’ve been gross or at least tickled, but Ray seemed to be beyond all that, gasping and opening himself up for Fraser’s mouth all across his chest and his nipples, Fraser’s lips sliding down his belly as he wriggled down, kicking the bedclothes away.

Fraser got his mouth on Ray’s dick, then, and Ray arched up, hands clutching the sheets as his hips lifted like there was no such thing as gravity, like _Fraser_ was his gravity, sucking him in like one of those black hole things. Fraser clutched him tight, arms around his hips, and licked and sucked like Ray’s dick was the best thing in the world. Ray whined and thrashed and came in Fraser’s mouth, hard.

Fraser swallowed, licking him clean, and Ray, dazed, caught a glimpse of Fraser’s face, flushed and intent, disheveled hair and a trickle of come down his chin. Ray gasped and let his head fall back. “Lube!” he called, voice cracking and without much hope Fraser even understood English any more. Sure enough, Fraser made no move toward the night stand.

He lifted Ray’s legs, pushing them up so Ray’s knees were bent, and nuzzled behind Ray’s balls. Then he snarled in frustration and lurched up, grabbing the pillow out from under Ray’s head. Ray’s head fell back, thwack, on the sheet, and he felt Fraser jam the pillow under his ass, lifting him up. Ray tried again. “Fraser, for Christ’s sake use the–”

Fraser made a wordless noise of negation, then growled, “Smell you, have to–” and stuck his tongue in Ray’s ass. Ray made a high-pitched noise, transfixed, quivering, as Fraser licked and lapped at his hole, moaning and writhing against the bed.

He slid his arms around Ray’s hips and then he really went to town, getting his face right in there so as to stick his tongue as far up Ray’s ass as possible, and adding a spit-wet finger alongside it after a while, opening Ray up. Ray’s legs fell apart and he heard someone, probably him, making loud whimpering noises.

Tongue. In his ass. It was the best thing he’d ever felt, with the electric thrumming of the bond in every touch, and Ray was lost, gone, gasping and so damn hard again, cock swollen and bobbing, and Fraser got two fingers in him as well as his tongue, and they were both moaning and _fuck, fuck,_ maybe that report _had_ said licking, ’cause Fraser sure as hell could lick. _Man_ , could he lick.

“Fraser, Fraser, you gotta fuck me,” Ray managed to gasp. He reached down and hit Fraser on the shoulder. “Fuck me, goddamn you! I gotta come with your cock in my ass!”

That got Fraser’s attention, and he pulled himself up and grabbed wildly for the lube, while Ray rolled over on all fours ’cause that was how he’d done it with Stella and it felt good to stick his ass up in the air ready for Fraser, like some animal in heat which was pretty much what he was. God, he was so open and wet and wanting and he was gonna come all over the sheets if Fraser didn’t stop dicking around and just–

Fraser hauled him back and pushed in, one long steady thrust. Ray cried out, but not because it hurt. It burned a little, sure, but it felt so damn good. It felt _right_. It felt like coming home. This, _this_ was what he’d needed, and Fraser sobbed and said “Oh Ray, _Ray_ –” and then he was fucking into Ray, hard, holding his hips and that was gonna leave bruises but Ray didn’t give a damn. He opened right up for Fraser, sighing with pleasure, and braced himself against the head of the bed and went with it, no need to touch his own cock because he wanted it to last. He wanted it never to stop.

He felt Fraser shift, pulling Ray back onto his cock and lifting them both up so Ray was sitting in his lap, his back against Fraser’s chest. He was built more solidly than Ray and Ray groaned as Fraser manhandled him, helpless with pleasure, feeling filled and used and taken as Fraser held him close and drove his cock up into Ray, biting the back of Ray’s neck and his shoulder.

“Ray,” Fraser moaned. “Ray, I’m . . . oh, _oh–_ ” and Ray felt him shudder, thrust up hard, and then still. Ray made a pleased noise and let his head fall back on Fraser’s shoulder, resting. He wanted to come, too, but Fraser had him and Fraser would take care of him. Fraser would take care of him and he’d take care of Fraser, and it was all so goddamn simple he didn’t know why it’d ever seemed complicated.

Fraser slid a hand down and around his cock. “Come on, Ray,” he said, and kissed the side of Ray’s throat. Ray pushed his cock up into Fraser’s hand, which was wet and warm and felt so good. He rested against Fraser’s chest and let it build, fucking into Fraser’s hand until the pleasure crested and he spilled over Fraser’s fingers. Fraser’s hips jerked one last time and then he tipped Ray forward and pulled out.

“Don’ go,” mumbled Ray into the mattress, not sure what he even meant.

“I’ll be back,” Fraser said.

**********

Diefenbaker was peering in through the fire escape window when Ben entered the living room, so Ben was glad he’d put the towel back on.

Dief whined. “Yes, I’m very much aware that you’re there,” said Ben, opening the window. Dief barked sharply and sniffed his groin. “Oh, you’re a fine one to talk,” Ben said. “I can well imagine what you’ve been up to.” Dief ignored him, jumping down and heading for the kitchen.

Ben gave him some water in a bowl. There was no dog food, of course, so he let Dief have half a packet of Graham crackers. At least they had fiber, unlike donuts. Dief hunkered down on the linoleum, crunching them with relish.

After he’d cleaned himself up in the bathroom Ben took a warm washcloth and returned to the bedroom, closing the door to prevent any wolf-related interruptions. He cleaned Ray as best he could and then slid in behind him, pulled up the covers, and put his arms around Ray, holding him close. He felt at peace, the bond a quiet presence between them but without the desperate urgency of before.

“Ray, that was . . . ”

“Yeah, I know,” Ray said softly. “It sure was.”

Ben kissed his shoulder. “I think that’s done it now. Can you feel it?”

“Duh.” Ray reached back to slap Ben on the hip. “Dumb question.” Ben smiled against Ray’s neck.

They were quiet for a time, resting together.

“I still want the whole shebang, though, you know,” Ray said. “I may be bonded but I ain’t easy.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “I never thought you were. The, er, whole shebang?”

“Yeah, I want that damn party,” Ray said, pushing himself comfortably back into the curve of Ben’s body. “And the courting, Frase. I definitely want the courting.”

“Understood.”

 

**********

the end

 


End file.
